


You didn't know me at thirteen

by nearperfectthing



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: and a story about jon lovett's self esteem, mentions of Ronan & Emily, this is a story about friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:32:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nearperfectthing/pseuds/nearperfectthing
Summary: “There was a dog barking. Jon opened his eyes. To be more specific, the cutest dog in the universe was barking. A goldendoodle, looking up at him with the world’s saddest eyes.Where the fuck am I?”In which Jon Lovett closes his eyes in a recycling bin in 1997 and opens them in Los Angeles in 2019.
Relationships: Jon Lovett & Jon Favreau & Tommy Vietor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	You didn't know me at thirteen

**Author's Note:**

> This is my version of the “teenage Jon Lovett wakes up in adult Jon Lovett’s life” story that we all keep talking about. The real-world relationships exist in this story, although only in background. Please respect the fourth wall, as I know you all do, and I hope you enjoy.

The lid of the recycling bin was locked. Jon had checked, pushing carefully upwards. He wanted to pound his fists against it, wanted to scream and make as much noise as possible, beg someone to help him get out. But Jeff and Rick could still be outside, waiting to laugh at him – the echo of their laughter when the lid had slammed shut was still bouncing around the metal box.

Jon was going to cry.

Jon was not going to cry. He was not going to let whoever was going to free him from this godforsaken recycling bin see him cry.

Jon was not going to cry. He was going to breathe in and breathe out and breathe in and not cry. Jon closed his eyes as tight as he could. Outside, somewhere in the free world, there was a dog barking.

There was a dog barking. Jon opened his eyes. To be more specific, the cutest dog in the universe was barking. A goldendoodle, looking up at him with the world’s saddest eyes. 

_ Where the fuck am I? _

A house, apparently, A kitchen, with a handful of dishes stacked in the sink, but messily, like someone had taken the time to restack the plates and bowls without actually cleaning them. It was not a kitchen that he recognized, and the air around him was warm and dry, nothing like the sticky humidity inside of the recycling bin. It occurred to Jon that it didn’t feel like he was in Syosset at all. But priorities, he bent down the squint at the dog’s nametag, which said  _ Pundit.  _

“Where the fuck am I, Pundit?” His voice was the same as ever, which made Jon cringe a little on the inside. It had been breaking near-constantly for the past few months, and it was evident that just moments ago, he had been about to cry. The dog, Pundit, barked again. 

_ Think, Jon _ . The voice in his head that commanded him to be logical, like always, sounded vaguely like his mother’s.  _ The dog is barking because she’s…. Hungry? Wants to go for a walk? Doesn’t know what the hell I’m doing in her house?  _

Probably the last one, but the first was the easiest to deal with. There was a bag of dog food in the corner next to the trash can, and as soon as Jon made a move towards it, the dog stopped barking.    
  
“Good girl.”

_ Okay, now what?  _

Something on the kitchen counter was buzzing. When Jon turned, it was a… very small television? Which told him that it was Tuesday, September 17.  _ I could have sworn it was a Wednesday. I was carrying my calc textbook because it’s a Wednesday.  _ The very small television / very large clock started buzzing frantically in his hand. It said, incoming call: Tommy Vietor. The very small television / very large clock was apparently a phone, but Jon didn’t have time to consider that, or who Tommy Vietor was. On instinct, like his fingers knew how to work the television / clock / phone even if his brain didn’t, he answered the call. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” the voice on the other end was surprisingly clear. “Hey Jon, are you already on your way out?”

“Um… no?”

“Okay, awesome, I love your pathological tardiness, you know,” The voice, Tommy Vietor, said cheerfully. “Would you mind swinging the store on the way in? I swear to God, we have run out of printer paper. Hell of a company we run, right?”

_ A what? _

  
  


Options that Jon had:

  1. Hang up, pretend it was a wrong number.
  2. Tell the guy, Tommy Vietor, that it was a wrong number, because he seemed friendly enough. But it was awkwardly late in the conversation for that.
  3. Somehow find printer paper and the office of the company he apparently co-ran with a guy named Tommy Vietor.
  4. Plead an emergency.

  
  


Jon went for the fourth option, which, as it turned out, did not work at all. Tommy Vietor seemed concerned, offered immediately to come by the house, and Jon was too flustered to say no, which meant he had to come up with a fake emergency, or figure out how to explain being in this house, which was beginning to feel strangely comfortable, despite everything,

“I’ll bring Jon,” Tommy Vietor had said, and Jon didn’t know how to ask if that was supposed to be him. He sat at the kitchen table. Surely there was some logic to be made from all of this. Jon was a logical guy. This was like a calculus problem, he just had to solve for x. In which x was what the hell had happened, and how did he get back to the recycling bin, where his real life was. Actually, now that he thought about it, maybe it was better to sit in this strange kitchen in a strange house with some strangers on their way. It wasn’t like his real life was all that fun after all, nor did it have this cute dog. 

There was a copy of the New York Times sitting on the kitchen table, comfortingly familiar in that font with “all the news that’s fit to print” written across the top, just like it was at Jon’s real home, where his mom would take the arts section and his dad would take the editorials and they would fight over who got the front page first, and sometimes Jon would grab it right out from underneath both of them, just to make his mom laugh. There was probably a copy of the New York Times somewhere in the recycling bin, maybe one of the sections that people didn’t care about, like travel. Jon pulled the paper closer to him, at least he could do something familiar for a few minutes, skim the arts section so he could find a movie his mom would want to see, read the editorials so he could argue with his dad. At the top of the front page it said, September 17, 2019. 

  1. _ So this is what 2019 looks like?_

He read the date out loud. It sounded insane, but somewhere deep inside him, it felt right. Like the house had started to feel right, like the name Tommy Vietor on the phone which fit so neatly in his pocket had felt right. This is what 2019 looks like. At that moment, the doorbell rang. 

He opened his door to see two guys, mid-thirties probably, tall enough that Jon, embarrassingly, had to strain his neck to look them in the eyes. 

Some things that the two guys said:

  1. Hey Lo– wait a second–
  2. Sorry, this is…
  3. No Tommy, this is definitely the right house. I mean come on, we know the house. (This was not directed at Jon.)
  4. Sorry, you are…?
  5. Shit, he looks just like Lovett when he was little, remember that picture Em had? (This was not directed at Jon either.)
  6. Hey, I’m Tommy, I called earlier – was that you on the phone? (This, finally directed at Jon, and he nodded, suddenly nervous, in response.)
  7. Okay, what the hell is going on?

Jon felt defensive, suddenly, and made a move to shut the door. Forget these people, he could figure out what was going on. He had already started – Jon was in the future. It was 2019, and he had to find some way to get back to 1997. That was all. 

But just as quickly as Jon made up his mind, the taller of the two, Tommy, Tommy Vietor from earlier on the phone, stuck his foot in the doorway. “Hey kid,” he said, “can we come in?”

“Why would I let strangers into my house?” Jon asked, which seemed reasonable, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how normal it had felt to claim ownership of the house. 

“You’re Jon, right?” The shorter one addressed him directly for the first time. “Jon Lovett?” Jon thought for a moment about lying, wondered if this was all some set up. If they were pretending to know him, like some kidnappers that he had been warned of in elementary school. 

“What makes you think that?” Jon’s tone was combative, closed off, a way of speaking he’d picked up in high school, when he had to talk to people like Jeff and Rick. (“Hey Jon, what’dya think of the new guy’s ass? That’s the kind of thing you people care about, right?” “What makes you think that?” To be honest, it was never a tone that had gotten Jon very far.)

“Look,” Tommy Vietor said, “Can we come in? Clearly there’s something weird going on, right?”

And Jon had to admit, “right.”

  
  


Some things that Jon learned, within two minutes of letting them enter his house:

  1. Both guys, Tommy (tall, straight shoulders, don’t look at his cheekbones, Christ Jon, and don’t look at his jaw either) and “call me Favs, I think that’s less confusing” (slimmer, not Jon’s usual type but wow, smiling happily like this was all totally normal) seemed incredibly comfortable, going right to the refrigerator for a drink.
  2. They recognized him from a photo that “Fran” had given “Emily,” which apparently meant that they knew Jon’s mom. He didn’t ask who Emily was. 
  3. They told him that they knew him, Jon Lovett, as an adult. That they were friends (“Good friends,” Favs emphasized, and Tommy agreed) and worked together. Jon, personally, had some doubts about this, but he kept them to himself. 
  4. They look like they could have shoved him into a locker at Syosset High, and possibly would have.
  5. But Pundit clearly liked them. 

  
  


And so Jon confessed to them what he knew. “It was 1997,” he said, “and I was, well, it doesn’t matter where I was. I closed my eyes for a moment and when I opened them I was here.”

Which put a damper on the conversation for a few minutes. 

“So this is… some kind of time travel situation?” Favs asked. “That’s pretty fucking weird, but I guess so is any other explanation.” (“Wait,” Favs had added, “Can we curse in front of you?” Jon wasn’t sure who he was asking, but replied with a somewhat snotty “I’m fifteen.” Favs looked at him like, _exactly_.)

“Have you ever heard of something like this?” Favs’ question seemed to be directed at Tommy, although they were both looking at Jon. Jon got the feeling that they were used to each other, in that way. 

Within moments, both had pulled out their own version of the very small television / very large clock / phone and were tapping furiously with their thumbs. Jon didn’t do anything. He felt very, very young. 

For a few very long minutes in which Favs and Tommy squinted at their devices, Pundit nosed at Jon’s sneakers, and Jon tried very hard not to wonder if he still smelled like the inside of a recycling bin, like damp, sticky paper left out in the sun. Maybe that was why Pundit was so interested in him. 

Favs gave up first, than Tommy. There was nothing to be found, at least easily, on the internet. It was time travel, probably. Jon had closed his eyes in one year and opened them in another. It was September 17 in both worlds. Jon was craving Domino’s pizza in both worlds. They sat on the couches, Jon’s couches, for a few moments, thinking this over. And then he realized what a huge, enormous, out-of-nowhere opportunity he had to learn about the future. About very small televisions / very large clocks / phones. About who he would turn out to be. 

“Can we talk,” Jon asked, “About 2019? Can I ask questions?”

“I don’t know,” Favs said carefully, “what we’re supposed to tell you, about your life. Like, what if we fuck things up? Butterfly effect and all?”

“Okay,” Tommy said, “but like, he already knows way too much, right? Like, we might as well make things make sense.”

“He’s right here, thanks,” Jon said, snottily. Like being fifteen meant people could talk right over your head. Actually, in Jon’s experience, that was exactly what being fifteen meant. 

“See, he’s clearly our Lovett,” Tommy said brightly, “look at how annoying he is!”

Oh God. Oh God they hated him, of course they did. How was future Jon still so stupid that he would go into business, become friends with these people who were so clearly cooler than him, so clearly knew it? Was he going to spend the rest of his life pretending he didn’t mind that everyone around his was making fun of him to his face, let alone behind his back? Why even bother leaving Syosset. 

Tommy was grinning at him. 

“Don’t you want to hear about how we founded the coolest company ever?” It sounded sincere, but then again, Jon had made that mistake before. 

“The coolest company that ran out of printer paper this morning?” Favs was smiling too. They seemed so relaxed, in his home. Jon wished desperately he had never let them come over. 

“Or is there something else you want to know?” Tommy said, “Ask us anything, seriously. We know you pretty well.”

Here was the thing about Jon, the thing that had always gotten him in trouble: it was always too tempting to play along. Jon was a funny guy, quick on his feet, and he didn’t necessarily mind laughing at himself, which was only one step away from letting himself be laughed at. If he played along, then he was part of the joke, sort of, at least enough. This was the rationalization that Jon always gave, which lead him to sign up for middle school basketball tryouts, to not tell the teacher about a note taped to his back, to actually, with his own two legs and own to feet, climb into that recycling– anyway. It might hurt more later, to play along, but at least it hurt in private. 

So Jon played along. He asked, “What’s the company called? That we supposedly run?” Favs rolled his eyes, just a little, at the word “supposedly,” and Jon felt a flash of annoyance, and underneath, a sense of belonging, like maybe they were making the same joke after all. 

“Crooked media,” Tommy said, a lilt of pride in his voice, “You’ll get the joke, eventually.”

So much for telling him anything. There was a lot Jon wanted to ask. He could ask if he owned this house, when he had bought it, where he had gotten the money. He could ask where he would go to college, and whether he would like it. He could ask about his parents. They had mentioned his mom, so they must know something. They hadn’t mentioned his dad. What if, what if Jon in the future didn’t talk to his dad. Oh God his dad wouldn’t do that, would he? He was conservative, but he loved Jon, right? He loved Jon enough? Questions Jon had considered a thousand times, and here was a chance to get some sort of answer, unless of course he was still in the closet to his parents in his mid thirties. Oh God, what if he was still in the closet to his parents in his mid thirties? No, he absolutely couldn’t ask about that. Better not to know. Deflection, when things got hard, it was the Lovett family way. 

Jon cast around for something less personal to ask about, something that couldn’t be used against him by them, or by himself. The living room was pretty normal, a nice couch, a nicer television, bookshelves. Something framed on the corner shelf. 

“What’s that?” He asked, pointing to the frame. There was a moment’s pause. “Butterfly effect?” Favs asked, again, like they hadn’t just offered to answer anything. Apparently, the look on Tommy’s face said the same thing, because after a moment, Favs spoke.

“It’s a speech you wrote. When we met, we were speech writers. At the White House, and when you left, the president signed that speech for you.” 

Holy. Shit. 

Jon, by sixteen, had considered a variety of careers. He had considered law, which his mom had pushed repeatedly. He had considered engineering, which was the preferred option of his dad. “More practical,” Robert had a habit of grunting, while Fran sighed, “Robert, like we don’t know a baker’s dozen lawyers just on this block – they all have jobs.” Stand-up comedy, a bit of a fever dream, and writing a TV series, equally improbable. Speech writer, for the White House. Now there was an idea. Jon let himself, for just the briefest moment, close his eyes and imagine writing those speeches Bill Clinton gave from the Rose Garden, influencing government policy, his words, broadcast to millions, shaping American’s lives for the better. When he opened his eyes again, Favs was still talking.

“Anyway, you’ve been in LA ever since.”

LA, so that’s where he was. Jon had been out to LA once before, a few years ago, for a winter break. They had toured Universal Studios and gone to the beach and his mom had taken up half a roll’s worth of film just on him and his sister and the Hollywood sign. Apparently, he lived there now. Jon had yet to leave the house, and for a moment he wondered if he stepped outside, would Universal Studios be to his left, the Hollywood sign to his right. If this wasn’t real, Jon didn’t want to know it yet. And if this wasn’t, Jon wasn’t ready yet to go back to real. 

Favs had finished talking, apparently satisfied with the story he had told. Jon had a million more questions, and no idea where to start. 

“What else?” Tommy said cheerfully. Jon cast around for something else simple to ask, so he could sort through the more complicated questions.

(What Jon really wanted to ask, but he was worried they sounded to childish:

  1. How did I become a White House speech writer?
  2. Was I good at it?
  3. _Really _good at it?
  4. Who was the president? Was he good? Please tell me he raised the hell out of taxes on the millionaires. He’s a Democrat, right? Oh God please tell me he’s a Democrat, I don’t want to end up like my Dad.
  5. Am I famous?)

“Who’s that?” There was a photo next to the framed speech. It showed a guy who must have been Jon grown up, because he had the same curly hair, and his nose looked just like his mom’s. Next to him was another man, leaning gently against grown-up Jon, and the other man was, to be honest, and this was Jon’s first thought, really fucking hot. “The guy in the photo with me.”

Favs was smiling, slightly. “That’s Ronan, your partner.”

“My partner in what?”

“In, like, life. Your romantic partner.”

Tommy cut in with, “You’re marrying him, Jon,” like it was the news of the century. 

Jon’s first thought was,  _ that’s legal?  _ And his second thought was,  _ No, that’s too much.  _ Because that was the bridge too far. There was no way that this insane story he was being told was true. This was… this was… something else. This was a really weird dream. This was Jeff and Rick somehow learning hypnotism and fucking with him. They just wanted to see him cry when he figured it out, so they could tell everyone about it at school tomorrow. 

Jon was not going to let them see him fucking cry. 

“Fuck you,” he said. “You fucking assholes. One day you’ll learn you’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Jon?” The way Favs said his name, it was so gentle. It was like he cared. And Jon was not going to fall for it. He’d fallen for it before, the hot guy who seemed nice, and the hot guy who seemed nice was always the same guy who whispered  _ cocksucker _ behind your back. 

“You’re telling me,” Jon scrambled to pitch his voice so it sounded like he was about to start a joke. Because now that he knew this was all a prank, at least he could pretend to be laughing along the whole time. Maybe he could save face that way, maybe Favs and Tommy wouldn’t notice. “You’re telling me that this guy in that photo is going to marry me? What next, he’s the crown prince of some small European nation? Maybe has a castle on top of a remote mountain and a helicopter to deliver McDonalds at all hours? And he really loves dogs?”

Favs sounded careful when he answered, “He does love dogs, actually. And video games. And you. He’s quite public about that last part, these days.”

“Right, sure.”

Tommy this time, also gentle, like Jon was something to be handled. “You don’t believe us, do you?”

Which answer would lead to less humiliation down the line? Fuck it, Jon needed to be alone. Let them laugh about the way his eyes are about to fill with tears. “Can you guys give me a minute?”

They exchanged a look, like they could talk telepathically, like Jon wasn’t even there. And then they left, to give him a minute, alone in a living room that was apparently his. 

Here is what Jon knows:

  1. He doesn’t trust Favs and Tommy. 
  2. But there is diet coke in the refrigerator, so it’s not _not_ his future house.
  3. And Pundit seemed to trust him completely. 
  4. And shit, White House speech writer, engaged (to get married! Which is apparently legal!) to a guy who likes video games and dogs and is also hot, living in LA, that’s a life Jon could get used to. That’s a life he wants to know.

“You really run a company with me?” The words fell flat at Jon’s feet, no one to hear them. He spoke up, a bit, enough that Favs and Tommy could hear him, sitting in the kitchen. They came back in, looking at him expectantly. Jon steeled himself to continue. 

“What’s it like?” Jon could hear his voice breaking, just a little, and he hated how obvious it was. 

“Eh, it’s okay,” Tommy said. “It has its moments.” Thank god, at least someone could still make a joke. This made Jon feel better, a little more comfortable with getting his voice and the tears in his eyes under control. Favs didn’t get the memo though, apparently, because when he answered his voice was free of any sarcasm. “It’s rewarding,” he said, and something about his tone, the gentleness, the earnestness, and the ease in which he said it, it was like he had said it before and would say it again. 

“What do we do? With the company?”

“We make podcasts, mostly,” Favs said.

“We make what?” Jon imagined a group of whales swimming together. A bunch of sweet peas in a garden. A wizard creating a spell. Favs looked at him blankly for a moment. “Oh shit,” he said, “have podcasts not been invented yet?”

Tommy laughed. “You’d think we never lived in 1997.” Favs jammed his elbow into Tommy’s side, the kind of playful roughhousing that sitcoms had taught Jon were common of brothers, and of straight guys. 

“Basically,” Tommy said, “we talk shit about politics. And people listen to us.” 

Which sounded pretty much like the dream.

Favs chimed in with, “Sometimes we talk shit about other stuff. TV, whatever. It’s pretty casual, and we’re our own bosses, which is pretty great.”

Jon wanted to ask a thousand more questions about who really sat around and listened to them talk shit about politics, TV, whatever. He tried to formulate this into a question, but Tommy seemed to take this silence for the end of the conversation, or maybe an impatience to return to the central topic at hand. 

Tommy said, “Is there anything from the moment you switched to being here? Like, what were you doing, exactly?”

Fuck. Jon really, really didn’t want to tell them. 

“Like I said, I had my eyes closed.”

“Right,” Tommy said, seemingly with infinite patience, “But where were you? What were you doing? Like, did it match up with what you were doing here?”

“No,” Jon snapped, before he could think better of it, “I wasn’t locked in a recycling bin when I got here.” Why the fuck had he said that? Why could he never keep his stupid mouth shut? “I didn’t mean to say that,” Jon said, awkwardly, horrified to hear his voice starting to crack. He couldn’t look at either of them. 

After a long moment, Jon’s voice said, “Does it help to know that you’ll joke about that, in the future?”

Did it help? Jon thought about it, honestly. He could feel the sticky heat around him, the panic in his throat when he pushed up on the lid of the recycling bin and nothing happened. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to share that with anyone, even through the warped lens of humor, of ever being able to make a joke about it without wanting to cry. He wondered if it really would seem funny, in retrospect. He wondered if his friends thought it was funny, or they all secretly felt bad for him. He felt bad for himself, in that moment, poor little Jon Lovett, locked in a recycling bin because he was an easy target and everyone at school knows it. Why on earth would a kid like that think he’s smart enough to work for the  _ president  _ of the _ United States.  _

“Anyway,” Tommy says, and Jon feels the rush of gratitude, thinks,  _ yeah, I could be friends with this guy,  _ “maybe it’s not about where you were. Maybe it’s about where you wanted to be.”

Which sounded poetic and all, but what did it mean? Where had Jon wanted to be? Literally anywhere else, but he certainly hadn’t been thinking that he wanted to be twenty-two years in the future, in Los Angeles. 

“Not to sound dumb,” Favs said, “but have you tried just, closing your eyes and trying to go back?”

Favs might have felt dumb saying it, but not half as dumb as Jon felt for not having even tried it. How had that not been his first thought? Reflexively, he closed his eyes, and thought about Syosset, the year 1997, that godforsaken recycling bin as hard as he could. Nothing happened. Jon opened his eyes again, tried to decide if he was disappointed or relieved. 

_ Maybe it’s about where you wanted to be _ . He didn’t want to be there, in Syosset, not at all. He didn’t want to say that either, still clinging to some thread of pride, but maybe they understood. 

“Hey Jon,” Favs says, “We know, I mean I’m sorry to say it like this, but we know you’re not super happy, in high school.” Jon doesn’t say anything. So they know, what’s he supposed to do about that?

“I was just thinking, maybe we could tell you a few more nice things before you try to go back again?”

“Who was the one worrying about the butterfly effect before?” Tommy muttered, but Jon could tell it was performative. 

Some things Tommy and Favs say, claim, are true:

  1. He writes a sitcom for NBC.
  2. He sells out Radio City Music Hall for a comedy show (“Fuck the rockettes,” Jon says, and Favs laughs. “Yeah, that’s what you said too.”)
  3. Ronan, his future partner, is the son of a _movie star_, “in case you were wondering how his face got to look like that,” Tommy jokes, but they refuse to tell him _which_ movie star. 
  4. They all live together in LA, running a company and apparently constantly going out to brunch together;
  5. “And Jon?” Favs says, lightly, “This is really buttefly-effecting it, but when you go to college, you’re going to meet a guy named Spencer? Go to that club fair with him, I promise.” And he and Tommy laugh, some in-joke that Jon isn’t a part of, not yet. 

And all over again, Jon didn’t want to go. He could stay here, right? He could stay here. Why couldn’t he stay here? He didn’t have to go back, to that recycling bin, to Syosset, to smiling awkwardly when his mom told him about how she’d just seen little Miriam Rosenfeld at the grocery store, and gosh she had grown up pretty, you know they still live right around the corner from Aunt Lauren and Uncle Eric?

Very quietly, Favs said, “Jon, you have to go home to get back here again.” 

Jon leaned down to pet Pundit, to delay, but she turned her adorably tragic face away from him, walked towards the hallway. Even the dog knew it was time for him to go home. 

Jon made a joke, because that was what Jon did best. “See you in twenty-two years?”

And Favs said, as earnestly as Jon had ever heard a person speak, “We’ll be here.”

Jon closed his eyes. 


End file.
